


Danger to Trust to Forgiveness

by Johnlocked Daisy (phoenixdaisy)



Series: Morstan's Fork [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Fix-It: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, POV John Watson, Pre-Slash, Reasonably Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixdaisy/pseuds/Johnlocked%20Daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John Watson is definitely in danger." This is the thought that brought Sherlock Holmes back to life after being murdered by his best friend's wife. A week later, he claims the same woman can be trusted and saved his life. By Christmas day, just over three months later, John has been convinced to forgive Mary without reading the flash drive.</p><p>What happened during those months that John was able to return to the mystery woman now known as Mary Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected Mementos

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a beta reader or Brit-picker. I haven't done any heavy editing either. This is a work-in-progress, and I'll post chapters as they're ready.
> 
> I do intend to eventually make this a series. This work will be contained within the HLV episode, while the next will be a follow-up to be superseded next year when series 4 is aired, and finally I have in progress a TRF to HLV (and possibly beyond) story from Mary's POV, but releasing it now would spoil what I want to do with the second story.

John’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Since he’s sitting at Sherlock’s hospital bedside, the text clearly wasn’t from him. He considered not looking at all, but it may be his wife checking up on them, or Lestrade wanting to ask about the shooting. The former soldier wishes he knew more, but even reaching the room within a minute of it happening wasn’t enough to catch sight of the culprit. Even with the suppressor on it, he was able to recognize the sound of the gunshot from the stairwell.

The text was neither friend nor family. At least, not from his own family.

> _Please relay my brother’s first words_  
>  _to me when he awakens. I will leave_  
>  _the bedside waiting to you, as my_  
>  _presence will surely agitate him. I’ve_  
>  _made arrangements with the hospital_  
>  _to allow you to stay until he wakes up,_  
>  _at which point you will need abide by_  
>  _regular visiting hours. -MH_

John checks the time: midnight. He’s already been here after visiting hours. He fires a text to his wife, letting her know he won’t make it home, though by the time she sees it in the morning it will be rather obvious. The doctor slips his hand under Sherlock’s and settles into the chair by his bed, trying to get comfortable so he can doze until his friend wakes up.

Fingers twitching against his palm pulls John awake. It’s nearly six in the morning now. He moves into the detective’s field of vision, and gently squeezes his hand. “Sherlock, can you hear me? It’s John.”

His eyelids flutter open slowly. Sherlock opens his mouth a few times, but no words come. John gives him a drink of water. Finally he manages to croak out one word, “Mary….” With that, he falls asleep.

John frowns slightly, wondering why his wife would be the first thing his friend thinks of, then sends the requested information to Mycroft.

> _It was just ‘Mary’ -JW_

Returning to the chair, John decides to take another nap before letting the staff know it was time to kick him out until the afternoon.

* * *

It’s just past eight when John leaves the hospital, Mary at his side. “I called in today, I have a few errands to take care of. Would you drop me off at Baker Street before you go to work?”

A strained smile flits across her face. “Actually, I’m off today as well, but I’m going to check on Janine, and have lunch with her.”

He nods, “Yeah, of course. Do I need to get myself a cab then?”

His wife shakes her head, “No, I can drop you off first. When did you want to meet back here?”

“Visiting hours start at two, so could you come keep an eye on him for me? Hopefully what I need to get done won’t keep me much longer than that.” He runs a hand through his hair, thinking about the day ahead.

“Of course, love. I’ll come back after lunch then.” Mary places her hand on the small of John’s back, leading him over to the car.

When he leaves the car again, John is standing in front of 221. He briefly considers sneaking up to his old room for another nap, but that will need to wait. Once he’s in the flat, he turns and heads back to Sherlock’s room.

Janine isn’t hiding in here this time, thankfully. John’s attention is immediately drawn to the chair in the corner. More specifically, it is his chair in the corner. _Why did he bring that in here?_ he wonders. As usual, the room is mostly free of clutter. The bed hasn’t been made, but the wrong side was slept in. John can only assume that Janine slept in the flat alone while Sherlock was in the flophouse getting high. _God, she was a terrible girlfriend,_ he thinks, _she should have noticed he was doing drugs, did something to stop him._ John starts searching the room. Under his chair, he discovers a loose floorboard. He pries it out, afraid of what he’ll find hidden in the floor.

It’s not at all what he expects. There’s a small canvas bag in the floor, filled with passports. The portraits on them all are of Sherlock, though he has on glasses in several, on some he has facial hair, and his hair is a variety of styles and colors (the ginger ones look surprisingly good, while the palest blonde ones look like bad bleach jobs).

He looks at the information in them. The Canadian one has his first name listed as Jean, which makes John snort. The next one he looks at is Columbian, it has the name Juan on it. This time the doctor’s brows furrow. He picks up another, it’s Italian and the name on it is Gianni. With a frown he goes through them faster now - Brazillian: Joao; Dutch: Jan; Irish: Sean; German: Johan; Danish: Hans; Russian: Ivan; Serbian: Jovan; Welsh: Ianto; USA (New Yorker): Zane; USA (Hawaiian): Keon; Greek: Yanni; Armenian: Hovan; Egyptian: Yahya - and while he isn’t positive on all of them, he’s pretty sure the first name on every single passport is a variant of **John**.

The doctor's stomach churns with confusion and... regret? Unwilling to deal with his internal conflict, he shoves the passports back in the bag and conceals it back into the floor. He still needs to give a statement at NSY before heading back to the hospital in the afternoon.


	2. Binning Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would take place after Mary's first visit as well as [this deleted scene](http://youtu.be/Vq6WHwHldFk). It is prior to Janine's visit, however.

“Throw out the flowers, John.” Between the pain and the drugs, Sherlock’s sentence is laboured and soft. 

The doctor snorts at the detective, “I imagine you find well-wishes boring.” 

Sherlock’s head jerks a negative, “Sentiment... and lies.” 

John moves to the black wreath and reads the card, “Pentonville prison, C-block. No message on the card, but it’s clear the sentiment is honest and deadly.” He dumps it the bin. He moves to the next wreath, “No name or message,” it goes in the bin. “Get well soon, no name,” it goes in the bin. Next he moves to the single dark red rose. 

“Leave that,” Sherlock wheezes. 

John lifts his brows at his friend, holding up the card with a single **W** for him to see. “I’m surprised to see this one is all.” He wonders if Mycroft sent it, since Irene Adler is supposedly dead. Or maybe his minions got it wrong, after all, and she did manage to fake her own death a second time. He takes the card from the rose's neighbor. “Janine,” he states, and looks to Sherlock. A nod from his friend elicits a sigh, but he leaves the single yellow carnation where it is, as well. He continues around the room. “I’m leaving the carnations from the Yard, though I’ll move them over by the window so they bother you less, yeah?” 

Sherlock grunts in annoyance. He manages to wave his hand at a small but garish bouquet of purple flowers, “Mrs. Hudson’s, too.” 

Once the approved flowers have migrated to the far side of the room, John comes back to look at more cards. “Former client, no name, no name... Cam? Didn’t she send a telegram to my wedding?” 

The detective rolls his eyes, “Initials… Magnussen’s.” He takes a closer look at the card, since John’s dropped it into his hand, while more flowers find their way to the bin. “Nothing,” he states, dropping the card. 

The ex-soldier picks the card up and throws it away as well. Then he moves a red chrysanthemum to the bedside table, making it the fifth and final vase to survive the purge. “There, this one is from me and it’s supposed to mean that you’re a good friend and you need to rest. You’ll just have to live with it being there.” He holds a water cup up for Sherlock, slipping the straw into his mouth. 

Sherlock takes a few long swallows before commenting, “Red means more, John.”

“Have you memorized flower meanings? No, nevermind, you probably use it solve attempted murders or something.” He sighs and settles into the chair by the bed. 

The detective offers a small smirk, but doesn’t bother responding. 

John shifts back up, frowning thoughtfully, “Wait, does that mean Magnussen sent a telegram to my wedding? That was the one that mentioned Mary’s family, wasn’t it? Was he threatening her? Kind of stuck out, what with her being an orphan and all.” 

Sherlock jerks his head. “Tired now, John.” 

The doctor nods and settles back, wondering if he should ask Mary about the telegram from Cam. It’s also been two days since he found the collection of passports. While Sherlock sleeps, John thinks about both these things, what they mean, and how they make him feel. In the end, John doesn’t remember to ask Mary about the telegram.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flowers not mentioned specifically in the deleted scene were chosen [from this list](http://thelanguageofflowers.com/).


	3. Bulletproof

Mrs. Hudson forces John’s own buzzing mobile into his hand. Eyes fixed on the bottle of Claire-de-la-Lune, he answers the phone. “Sherlock, where are you?”

_“I sent a cab to Baker Street for you. It will bring you to me.”_

He huffs and unbelieving laugh and pushes up from his chair. “Fine, but you’ll stay on the phone with me.” John heads downstairs, climbing into the taxi which had just pulled up for him. “I’m on my way. So tell me, are you protecting your shooter, or someone else?”

The detective hums over the line. _“Both, technically.”_

“And why do you think I’m moving back in to Baker Street?” The doctor’s fingers drum his knee as the the taxi ride continues. “There was a bottle of Mary’s perfume next to my chair. Please tell me that my wife isn’t involved in this.”

_“You’re getting better, John, so you know I can’t do that.”_

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any proof?”

_“I know you don’t want to believe this, nor does she want you to figure it out. Which is why I plan to make her show you.”_

Several minutes pass, the friends listening to each other breath while the cab brings the former soldier toward the next battle. “Do you have my gun?”

 _“No, nor should you have it. You will be angered by both her and myself tonight, John. I need you to not hit anyone. After you and I are alone again, I’ll tell you everything I know.”_ Another extended pause passes between them. _“You should be arriving shortly, go into number 23.”_ The detective hangs up.

* * *

John paces and seethes in the waiting room. _Stupid, Watson!_ he berates himself, _he warned you he was going to piss you off, and you got so furious that you didn’t even notice he was killing himself._ He kicks one of the chairs, but it just slides into the wall with an unsatisfying clatter. He drops into a different chair, dropping his head into his hands.

After one of the doctors comes to tell John that Sherlock is back in his recovery room, the doctor sneaks into his room. Over the years, he’s learned that acting like you should be where you are is often enough for hospital staff to ignore you.

Sherlock hasn’t recovered from sedation, yet. John strips his cardigan and shirt off so he can remove the bullet-proof vest hidden beneath. After putting his clothes back on, he sits in the chair by the hospital bed, sliding his hand under his friend’s, and thinks about the night’s events until he eventually falls asleep.

It’s mid-morning when John wakes up. Thankfully, though nurses and perhaps doctors have surely been by to check on Sherlock throughout the night, none saw fit to wake him and kick him out.

Checking his mobile, the doctor gratefully realizes that he has the day off. He decides he’ll need to schedule at least a couple weeks leave next month, when he expects Sherlock to be released from the hospital assuming he doesn’t try to escape again.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is laboured again.

He turns to the lanky git on the bed. “I was there, you know. It didn’t take me five minutes to get to you. I couldn’t have missed Mary by more than…” he sniffs, “a few moments? I heard her shoot you from the stairwell.” He pauses a moment to let that sink in. “I called emergency before I was even in the room. Burglary in progress or not, gunshots change the rules. Not only that, but Lestrade told me my call was the second. First one came from an alert app on Magnussen’s smartphone, nearly a full minute prior to mine. She talked to you before she shot you, yeah? She must have, since his call had to go out before she even pulled the trigger.”

The detective’s head dips slightly, “I saw him.”

John’s lips thin. “So, you lied to me, but you also told me we would talk about it after. Tell me that you did it for her benefit, because you want her to think I can forgive her.”

“Yes.” Sherlock states simply. His head lolls back. “Tired.”

The doctor sighs. “Fine. When you’re well enough to talk again, which likely won’t be for a day or two, we’ll going to have a discussion about this.” The hard tone of his voice, harsher than _stern doctor_ but not quite _Captain Watson_ , brooks no argument. Sherlock probably doesn't have the energy to argue or sulk about it right now anyway.


	4. Deduction Dissection

“Despite the fact that you’re likely in a lot of pain, I’ve noticed you keep the morphine taps set to an extremely low level.” John certainly isn’t complaining about this. Opioid withdrawal requires quite a bit of monitoring and would make Sherlock absolute hell to deal with. What little the doctor knows about his time in rehab is still enough to convince him the detective wouldn’t willingly submit to a detox program in a specialized facility.

“Not good for working, John.” Sherlock’s voice is a bit strained, but he’s speaking in full sentences. Actually, the fact he spoke at all is nearly a relief to the blonde, since for the past two days the brunette has avoided pain and discussion by spending his afternoons and evenings either asleep or in his Mind Palace.

When Sherlock opens his eyes to look over at John, a half-smile flits across the shorter man’s face. “Since you’re talking to me today, I think you should fulfil that promise. Tell me everything you know.” He lifts a finger, pointing at the taller, “And don’t skip over anything, not even if you think it’s insignificant and especially not if it’s dangerous.”

Aquamarine eyes flit back and forth a few moments before settling on his own long-fingered hands. “The night I came back to London, you probably noticed that I completely ignored Mary.” John gives a short chuckle, until Sherlock’s eyes lock with his own. “You were the only person I cared to see or observe. Up until the moment _you_ observed _me_ , you were every bit a man who had moved on and was living his happy, normal life. I showed up moments before you were to be engaged, John.” He turns his head away, and for a moment the doctor wonders if, just maybe, the grimace was a sign of emotional rather than physical pain. 

John reaches out, nearly taking Sherlock’s hand in his own, then stops when he realizes this small intimacy is something they don’t usually do. When had the doctor let the act turn from an alert to attempted comfort? His hand retracts, gripping his own knee instead. “If you had come back even seven months earlier, you’d have found me very different.” His left hand and jaw both clench. “Maybe then you would have understood why I was so furious when you did.”

The detective’s hand grips the sheet and thin blanket laying over his lap. “Anyway, when you finally were finished dealing with me that night, Mary told me that she would ‘talk you around.’ That was when I finally bothered to observe her.”

“Did you know then?” The doctor isn’t sure what answer would be better. Either his best friend knowingly let him marry an assassin, or she managed to fool one of the greatest minds in London, and perhaps the world.

Only the shifting of dark chocolate curls indicated the minute shake, a response of negativity. “I saw she was a liar, either compulsive or accomplished, or perhaps both. She is also some sort of guardian. As an only child, her ward won’t be a sibling nor a niece or nephew, meaning most likely she’s either already a mother, or one or both of her parents are alive and have been legally remanded to her care. Between her claim of being an orphan and Magnussen’s wedding telegram, I thought this was the lie she was keeping from you. It may even still be the one she doesn’t want you to know. Along with these deductions, I realized she was a linguist and really clever. These were the only possible hints to what she was.”

The ex-soldier is gaping when Sherlock turns back to look at his friend. “...Is she the Jennifer Wilson kind of clever?”

This draws Sherlock up short, perhaps recalling how he’d claimed the woman in pink was clever for pulling off her lifestyle as a serial adulterer. “I… don’t know. Do you have reason to think Mary’s cheating on you?” He waves a hand, as if declaring potential adultery as unimportant. “She’s clever because she can hold up complex lies for extended periods of time. The ward she’s hiding makes her clever on its own.”

“Right,” John grumbles, “So, why didn’t you think to tell me, or at least ask her, about this?”

The detective’s lips press together, flattening into a straight line. “Most of these deductions were clear, obvious. Size 12 was discarded as unimportant, the appendix scar and romantic deductions made the existence of her secret tattoo uninteresting, being shortsighted was discounted along with her disillusion in being a Liberal Democrat, her job as a part-time nurse was what brought her into your path, the fact she bakes her own bread meant you would always have fresh toast, and being a cat lover only meant minor disagreement potential for future pets.” He sighs, “even her guardianship might just have been that she took care of you in my absence, emotionally if not legally. The fact she’s a liar was an undercurrent, barely noticed and… likely ignored, for your sake, for your happiness.” Sherlock looks John in the eyes again. “If I’d told you during that first week your fiancée was a liar, you never would have believed me, and it would only have driven you away from me. Then Mary was encouraging us to spend time together, so I put my conclusions away and helped her plan your wedding.”

John sits a few minutes, parsing the deductions. “So, since Mycroft knew you were alive the whole time you were,” he waves his hand vaguely, “gone, he was keeping watch on me, wasn’t he?”

Sherlock looks down at his lap, “I might have asked him to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah. So, why didn’t he see that Mary was a threat? He must have put together a file on her at least when we moved in together.” The Captain blinks, then narrows his eyes at Sherlock. “He dropped you off at my engagement dinner, didn’t he? Maybe he was expecting you to drive Mary off like you did every single girlfriend I’d had while we were living together. I had to make those reservations two weeks in advance, so he had time to find you and drag you home.”

The violinist’s fingers tap against his own leg. “That is… reasonable.”

“Reasonable,” the doctor huffs. He knows there’s something going unsaid, but he doesn’t pry at the moment. Talking about that time would distract from the more pressing matter of Mary. “So, what the bloody hell did you mean when you said I ‘chose her’?”

Sherlock manages a smirk that isn’t entirely pained grimace instead. “It’s at least partially true. If she had actually been what you thought she was, she never would have put up with me coming back from the dead. She would have discouraged you from seeing me, your leg might have started acting up, and once you spent too many nights away on cases with me she would have broken your engagement. Assuming you still forgave me, of course.”

John glares at this theory, but finds he can’t exactly argue with it.

“However, I think its more likely that she chose you, sought you out because of your connection to me. Between the flash drive she gave you and whatever my brother has on her, we might even be able to determine if her intent was hostile or hopeful. Actually,” his eyes lift and he looks at John, “what is her tattoo of?”

“Her tattoo? It’s a tiger, but I don’t understand how that could be relevant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize until actually writing this chapter that in the UK _shortsighted_ can mean either _nearsighted_ or _lack of foresight_. Since I have no idea which one Sherlock meant, I left the reference to that deduction vague here.


	5. Unexpected Presences

“Good evening, Sherlock.” John quirks a half-smile at his best friend, handing over a folder of printed emails. “Here, these are the best client emails we’ve gotten recently, in case you get bored.” Freshly showered, it was clear he’d headed to Baker Street first to clean up and eat after work.

The detective hums non-committedly from his bed. “You should probably post that I am unavailable for anything beyond email consultation on your blog until I’m out of hospital.” He sets the folder aside for now.

The doctor snorts, “Try until after Christmas. I know you’ll go crazy if you can’t at least go back to Baker Street soon, but you need time to actually recover.”

“ _Christmas?!_ Dull. My brain will rot!” Thankfully, despite the dramatic vocal delivery of the statement, the lanky brunette doesn’t actually move around and hurt himself.

“Sherlock, you died. Your time of death was called. You sustained an injury which at the absolute best had a thirty percent chance of survival, likely closer to ten percent survival, and you died from it. I talked to your surgeon about it, no one is sure why or how you managed to come back. Then, a week later, you nearly killed yourself by escaping the hospital to confront your murderer.” John is worked up, anger not quite masking his fear, the first at Mary and the second for Sherlock. “Please, don’t push yourself before you get a chance to heal.”

He nods, aquamarine eyes locked to ones which are currently brown. “Fine, John, I will only do private consultations by email until at least Guy Fawkes Day.”

The doctor frowns. “After what happened last year, I’m tempted to take both Mischief Night and Guy Fawkes Day off work. If I don’t leave the flat, I can’t be put in another bonfire. Also, I’ve already talked to Greg, you won’t be going to any crime scenes before then, either.” He smirks at getting over a month of dedicated recovery from the detective, and finally settles down into the visitor chair. “I’ve been wondering something about Magnussen. Why was he there that night at all? He was supposed to be at a meeting, wasn’t he?”

“He was.” Sherlock steeples his hands, fingertips brushing his lips. After a minute or so, he continues. “It’s incongruous. Logically, Mary befriended Janine to track Magnussen’s schedule, just as I had. I was lead to believe that he would be out, while Mary apparently knew he would be present. I have several theories about this, less since I last saw Janine the day before we confronted Mary.”

“That was the day your sex scandal hit all the tabloids, wasn’t it?” John’s voice wavers, unsure if it should settle on disbelief or indignation.

The brunette’s hands drop and he lifts his brows at the blonde. “In one of them she claimed I made her wear the death frisbee, John. Surely you didn’t believe such ridiculous sensationalism.”

A giggle escapes the doctor, “That was a particularly ridiculous assertion, wasn’t it? Really, I wouldn’t have believed it at all if I hadn’t seen her come out of your bedroom half-naked or heard her in the bath with you. Except for Irene, I’d never seen you show interest in anyone that way.”

“The Woman uses sex as a weapon,” Sherlock groans, “while she didn’t alarm me, I most certainly did not want to face her on own battlefield. What did alarm me was that you left me alone with someone who had already drugged me once while I was in my Mind Palace. Besides, we’ve had this discussion a few times now: not my area, [the actual confirmed bachelor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3238433).”

The ex-soldier’s eyes widen. “ _Jesus_ , Sherlock, I didn’t even think about that when I left you both there. I just had to get away from her.” He rubs his hand through his hair, causing some of the short, dark ash blonde and gray strands to stick up a bit. “So, did Janine even know Magnussen was still in the building when she called you up?”

The detective purses his lips. “She didn’t sell the sex scandal stories to any of Magnussen’s media empire, so she didn’t invite me up to have a confrontation with him. Therefore, either she somehow didn’t realize he was there despite the fact he was right at his desk, or she was expecting Mary to arrive around the same time I did.” His eyes are hard and sharp when he looks to his partner, “If she knew Mary was coming, then she is much smarter and more dangerous than I initially gave her credit for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am considering Janine possibilities still, though I tend to lean toward a certain popular theory for her (which would bring her back in series 4).


	6. Flash Drive

It’s only been three weeks since Sherlock’s collapse at 221B, though it’s a week longer than John expected the staff to deal with him and one to three weeks shy of how long he should have been in hospital. Once he’s settled on the couch, the blonde pulls a flash drive from his pocket and hands it to the sprawled brunette. “Do you think I should look at it?”

“No, but I should. There is a box of old laptops under my bed, bring me the one with flame sticker on the bottom.” The detective waves the doctor off.

When John returns with the appropriate laptop, he hands the beast of a machine over. “This looked like the oldest one in your collection. Tea?”

“It is,” Sherlock also nods in response, most likely to the offer of tea. “It wasn’t my first, but anything older would be too outdated. I’ve removed the wifi in this one, as well as installed programs I can use for all sorts of security tasks, such as decryption and virus analysis. If this,” he holds up the AGRA drive, “doesn’t trigger any of my measures on this computer, then I wouldn’t trust a word typed on it.”

After setting one mug of tea beside his friend, the shorter man lifts the taller’s legs and sits under them, pulling them back into his lap. His left hand rests on an ankle, the steadier right holding his own tea. “So, besides the fact that I hadn’t thought about viruses or decryption, why are you looking at it instead of me?”

The detective finally fits the drive into the USB slot. “At this point, we need to figure out if Mary is a danger to us. If the worst thing she’s done by your standards is shoot me, you might decide to forgive her, at least for your child’s sake. However, if leaving her will put you or your child in danger, you might have to go back to her until we have sufficient evidence to have her arrested. In either of these cases, it would be best for you to have not read it.”

“I had a hard enough time forgiving you for pretending to kill yourself. Do you really think I would ever forgive her for trying to kill you for real?” The former soldier’s face is worn and harsh. “Claiming she was trying to incapacitate you is absolute shite. If she wasn’t willing to kill you, she could have shot out your knee or pistol whipped you like she did every other person in that office.” He puts his tea down and rubs his face with both hands. “Then she wanted you to lie to me so she could _keep me_. That’s not love, it’s entrapment, and it makes me wonder what else she’s lied to me about.”

Surprise passes over Sherlock’s face. “You really do think that she has been cheating on you.” He frowns. “I hate to suggest this, but if she’s been suspiciously absent, it’s possible that rather than having an affair, she’s been out on jobs.”

“Hah, that’s not very comforting.” John drops his head into his hands. “The largest issue is the due date. It places conception at July nineteenth.”

“The day after your stag-do. You spent that whole weekend here because of the drinking followed by the Mayfly Man case.” 

“Yeah. You noticed the very earliest symptoms at the wedding.” He waves a hand at the laptop on his friend’s lap. “Anything on that drive you should tell me about?”

The detective looks at the laptop, and frowns. “No, nothing! This drive only had several stealth programs to alert Mary of it’s access. If I hadn’t physically destroyed the wifi on this machine, it would have activated it for the express purpose of contacting her. One of them is supposed to download something, but it could be a batch of nasty viruses or more spyware. Even if it wasn’t, she surely has alerts set up for downloads from the server.”

The doctor starts to absently rub the long feet in his lap. “So, I might have just ended up with a useless hunk of heavy plastic for my trouble had I tried to look for myself? Lovely.” He sighs. “If I wanted to, say, have a look at Mary’s prenatal records, which laptop would I need to fetch for you?”

“The one with the angler fish sticker. What do you want me to look for?” Sherlock raises his eyebrows at his ( _former? returned?_ ) temporary flatmate.

“I need to know if she’s had a paternity test done behind my back. If she hasn’t, I’ll need to figure out how to get one done without alerting her.” John looks grim. “I need to know for sure that she isn’t lying to me about the baby.”


	7. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I had some writer's block, wrote a third of a chapter, then scrapped it and started over.

“Sherlock?” John taps lightly on the first floor bedroom door, his voice lowered. Peeking into the room, he sees that Sherlock is asleep. He comes in to set the glass of water and paracetamol on the bedside table. The detective is curled tightly on his bed, with his duvet kicked off and his sleep shirt rucked up into his armpits. The former soldier reaches out to tug the shirt back into place, but what he sees etched into the canvas of his friend’s skin gives him pause.

The scars spread across Sherlock’s back are somewhat aged now, though a few look like they had been infected when the wounds were fresh. The most disconcerting thing about these scars are the fact that they didn’t exist before The Fall, and the detective hasn’t been seriously injured on a case since his return until the doctor’s lying wife shot him. In fact, despite the fact that the Met released a public statement to the effect they would be pleased to work with Sherlock again after his return, the only case they’d been called in on was [The Elephant in the Room](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/10june), the rest had been through private clients.

John carefully pulls the shirt down, the duvet up, and slips from the room. He knows he’ll have to confront the detective about what he saw, but for now his injured friend needs the sleep to recover. As the recovering addict has been eased off his strictly monitored pain medication, the doctor has noticed Sherlock’s sleep patterns have been increasingly irregular. Now he suspects that the nightmares are more than the ones about Mary they’ve admitted to both having in the quiet hours of darkness.

So far, there have been no signs of withdrawal as the medications have been lowered or swapped out for less addictive substances. Frankly, John is fucking thankful for that. The last thing he wants to deal with on top of everything else is for Sherlock to go through detox while recovering from his shooting and possibly getting bored. Well, boredom hasn’t been a problem yet, as his brilliant friend seems to spend most of his waking hours considering or monologuing about the dual cases of Magnussen and Mary Morstan.

As he settles into his chair, John pulls out his phone and calls a number he usually avoids.

“ _Dr. Watson, to what do I owe your call?_ ” Even over the mobile, the former soldier can picture the cold façade of Mycroft Holmes.

The doctor hums before responding, “Yeah, I think you know, don’t you?” It occurs to John that he has no idea when the last surveillance sweep had been done on the flat. Probably not a good thing to let slide while they were on a case about a blackmailer.

“ _Are you hoping to ask for a file, or just have some blood-work slipped into her next work-up?_ ”

“The blood-work. He thinks I shouldn’t see the file until we’re sure I don’t have to go back.” John flexes his left hand in a fist against his knee. “Though it wouldn’t hurt if he had a look, would it?”

“ _This would have much simpler had you reverted to your usual patterns once I brought him home._ ”

The blogger sighs. “None of us were doing what you expected, though, were we, Mycroft? Mary pushed Sherlock and I to go on cases together, while he gave up doing them at all in favour of helping her plan my wedding, and I was just chuffed they got along so well. Neither of us looked too hard since we were getting what we wanted.”

“ _You were both getting an approximation of what you wanted, since neither of you will admit what you actually want._ ” The official sighs this time. “ _Never the less, the test will be taken care of so we know exactly how many strands she controls._ ”

“Jooohhn!” The sound of his name is distressed as Sherlock yells from his own bedroom.

“Shit, I need to go.” The doctor doesn’t think to thank Mycroft for his help as he hangs up and rushes to the detective’s side. His friend is flushed and sweaty, quivering with eyes closed, breathing hard under the tangled duvet. “Sherlock, just breathe. It was just a dream, you’re safe at Baker Street. Are you awake now?” He is answered with a nod. John hands Sherlock his water and paracetamol, then looks away. He is both letting his friend compose himself and finding the words he needs to say. “When I came to check on you earlier, I saw your back.”

Verdigris eyes rake over the blonde before the brunette speaks. “You have probably come to some correct conclusions. I was captured in Serbia, most of the scars are from that time. Mycroft came to extract me personally.”

“ _I_ should have come for you. Been there to maybe stop it in the first place.” His brow furrows, their eyes meeting, the blogger’s eyes currently brown as the blue edge has receded to his pupils. “Your brother did legwork to fetch you, how long was that before you came back to London?”

“We got straight on a plane once I was washed, and he had a doctor on board to see to me during the flight.” Sherlock looks away. “I was surprised at the time that you weren’t there, actually. Within four hours I was in London, and by the time I came to you at the Landmark it had been about fourteen hours.”

“ _Christ_. So, when I tackled you, your back was a mess from… what happened to you.” John swallows audibly. “I’m sorry if I aggravated your injuries.”

“You don’t need to apologize, John, you didn’t know.”


	8. Camera!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small double bed is 120cm x 190cm (~3’11” x 6’3”) in the UK, and generally used in guest rooms or small rooms without much space.

“What are you doing, John?” Sherlock has his morning tea now, and leans against his headboard.

The doctor is currently running his fingers under the periodic table poster’s frame. “Surveillance sweep. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t have me do one the day we came home.” John finds a microphone and tosses it onto the bedside table. “Probably just Mycroft’s, if we’re lucky, but better to check considering what’s going on. Occurred to me while I was on the phone with him before you woke.”

“Ah. Yes, good.” The detective directs the former soldier to several good hiding spots in the room while he moves about in his own search. Sherlock ignores the loose floorboard where his passports are hidden, but John surprises him by popping it open for a search of the hidey-hole and the bag. “I see you found that spot before.”

The doctor nods, “I did a drug sweep of your bedroom the morning after you were shot. Hadn’t had a chance before that since Janine had been here. There were no cameras or microphones in this room at the time.” He puts the bag back, feeling mildly relieved. They weren’t something John would particularly like being seen by anyone who would bug 221B. “Nothing in there.” He glances at younger man’s face, which is carefully blank. Sighing, the older one idly moves to search the inside of the wardrobe, which he had skipped during his first sweep. “Yeah, I looked at them, and I get the names are all– what the hell?” John pulls a camera from inside the wardrobe. “This is a fucking peep cam! The only possible reason to have a camera _inside_ the wardrobe is to watch you changing. There is no way Mycroft put it here, is there?”

Sherlock blinks, then picks up his phone and makes a call. John is pretty sure Mycroft is on the other end of the line, since he almost never calls anyone. “John is doing a surveillance search, did you have my bedroom bugged?” There is a tense pause. “He found one inside my wardrobe. Apparently someone was watching more than general activities.”

The doctor looks over the device in his hand. He doesn’t see any buttons or panels on it, nor any indication if it is recording or broadcasting.

“We will send this batch with your minion this afternoon, then.” The detective ends the call before turning to his friend. “Next room?”

John nods, “Yeah, loo next. If there are peep cams in here, there might be ones in there as well.”

The pair have a fry-up for breakfast before searching the kitchen. It and the sitting room each take more than twice as long to search as Sherlock’s bedroom and the loo combined. The detective sits on the stairs as his doctor searches the outer hall and stairwells. They end up in the top bedroom, which has the least number of devices in the whole flat. Sherlock is reclined on the bed when John speaks, “So, do you think this room was minimized because I wasn’t living here, or is your creepy stalker just not interested what I’m doing?”

“Unclear. In fact, it is entirely possible that the supposed peep cams aren’t even functioning and were only placed in those locations to upset us.” He holds out a hand, “Do you know which ones those were?”

John slips a camera out of his pocket. “This should be the one from the shower. Budge up.” After putting it in Sherlock’s hand, he settles on the bed next to him to watch.

On the narrow confines of the small double, the two are touching from shoulder to thigh along the centre of the bed. It occurs to John that this would probably bother him if anyone saw it, but just now he feels content and relaxed for the first time since Sherlock was shot. John isn’t terribly surprised to be woken from a nap a bit later when Sherlock needs some pain relief, though if either were uncomfortable with John’s hand clutched in the thin tee over his best friend’s heart, neither mentioned it.


	9. Files and Downloads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A king bed is 150cm x 200cm (~4’11” x 6’7”) in the UK, which is closer to queen-sized beds in countries which have them. Also, I have no personal experience with withdrawal, and decided to skip forward instead of writing about it, only doing some cursory research to establish timeline. Sorry the wait on the chapters is getting longer with each pass.

John splashes water on his face before looking in the bathroom mirror. His eyes look gray today, dark bags beneath showing how tired he is, and his stubble is a few days thick. Sherlock came completely off the morphine eight days earlier, and the withdrawal the doctor had hoped to be avoided rolled through his friend relentlessly. He had attempted to kip on the sofa at first, but quickly found himself passing out for short naps in his friend’s king-sized bed between bouts of caretaking.

The suspiciously thin file on his estranged wife had arrived shortly before the symptoms hit. John had a peek one afternoon while Sherlock was thankfully asleep. The information in the file was on her time in the CIA, though the name Dolly Evans was surprising. This made the former soldier wonder: if AGRA wasn’t her initials, then what the hell did it stand for? The terrible given name did explain why Magnussen had addressed her as “poppet” in the wedding telegram, however.

 _God, what a ridiculous name,_ John thought. _She likely got underestimated and ridiculed on it alone, and learned to use that to her advantage._ He didn’t like to admit it, but the doctor knew he was below the national average of male height. He knew all too well about being underestimated, and how to take advantage of it for both concealment and surprise.

This was the moment when John realized that it wasn’t as much of a disguise as it needed to be. In the past three years, ever since Sherlock- he still didn’t like thinking about that. Anyway, since then and John’s prolonged period of grief, becoming a full time GP swiftly followed by the arrival of Mary in his life: now John was more the soft, amenable doctor than the hard, resolute soldier. He was never particularly affable, though perhaps Sherlock thought him so if only by comparison to himself, but he worked at being civil. In retrospect, however, his civil façade had completely deteriorated in the month between the wedding and the day Sherlock was shot, and his amenable one died in the empty house confrontation. _No, it just came home to Baker Street and Sherlock. ‘Always your way.’_

Of course, having looked at the file wasn’t actually Sherlock’s way. John moves into the sitting room, eyes tracking down the AGRA flash drive. The detective was asleep at the moment, and likely to stay so for at least an hour. One of them had to take the risk and look at it, and the former soldier would much rather know about it and have to lie to “Mary” than to be kept in the dark by both of them.

Pocketing the drive, John slips upstairs with his laptop. There is a video in his download, which attracts John’s attention. He watches it in horrified fascination. At the end of the video, James Moriarty stands with body facing house right and looking at the camera, his face resigned, and says “Miss me?”

John slips downstairs to return the AGRA drive to where Sherlock had left it. Upstairs again with his laptop, he digs out a spare flash drive. He used to hide porn he didn’t want Sherlock to see on it, even now it has a choice video clip and a few images and gifs on it. He hadn’t looked at the trove since Before. Thankfully there is enough space to store the files of the AGRA download without having to remove any of his secret stash.

He’s quite sure Sherlock’s never looked at the drive, possibly never even finding it. If he had seen it, John is sure the brunette would be compelled to contest when the blonde claims “not gay.” Porn featuring one or two males, frequently with one tall and slender with darker hair, is extremely telling of interests the blogger has kept from his former flatmate. Not that John is _lying_ , he just uses hetero-normative expectations and bi-erasure to sidestep the issue.

 _It’s all about phrasing._ Although he hasn’t looked at anything else on the download yet, John can’t deny that he will have to go back to his traitorous wife until she’s taken down or taken out. The video clearly ties her to Moriarty, and with her skills and temperament, not to mention hormonal with pregnancy, if he doesn’t go back she will either kill Sherlock, himself or both of them. While he is ready to shoot Mary down himself if necessary, he’d rather not have to do so before she has the baby. No matter if it’s his or not.

Opening a new document, John writes out notes and works on phrases until he has the perfect message. _The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege._ Mary, hearing these words, should catch the surface meaning: Your past is not my business, and I’ll stand by you from now on. The true message hidden within is his threat and truth: **Your work for Moriarty might have been a job, but it will be my privilege to help apprehend you for it.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read some interesting metas between the last time I posted and now, which had some influence on what to do moving forward. Which is a good thing, actually, since I hadn't decided what to do with the drive after the last time I worked on it.
> 
> The interpretation of John's Prepared Words was something I came up with on my own while reading [this ask](http://phoenixdaisy.tumblr.com/post/111259176994/im-glad-to-see-im-not-the-only-one-who-is-rather) to SilentAuror. Thanks to Ariane DeVere for the [His Last Vow transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/68242.html), which I used as reference for them.


	10. Decision Shared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have once again referenced Ariane DeVere's [His Last Vow transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/68242.html), so thank you to them as always.

John knocks on the door before letting himself into Sherlock’s room. “Feeling better today?”

Quicksilver eyes rake over the doctor before he responds. “Ah, you’ve decided to go back.” His eyes flick away, and the doctor wonders if his friend is trying to hide his disappointment.

“We both know I need to go back. At minimum it will keep her from going trigger happy on us.” John crosses his arms. “Besides, if she’s up to something, be better if I’m there to stop her, yeah?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Sherlock asks, “When?”

“I’m not ready yet. I’ll be going back to work again next week, so if we aim for Christmas that will give me about six weeks to get used to her presence in a ‘safe’ location knowing I will be going back.” He runs his hand through his hair, “Not that I want to leave Baker Street at all, especially on Christmas, but-”

“It is a sentimental time and she’ll be more likely to accept your return because of it.” Sherlock’s face is a blank mask. Surely he must approve of the logic of the timing, right?

John shifts his hands to his hips. “Look, I spent some time figuring out what to say to her. I’ll tell her upfront I prepared the words, so she’ll expect it to sound rehearsed.”

“Clever, John.” An approving look crosses the detective’s face for a moment. “Let’s hear it.”

The former soldier takes a deep breath. His eyes land on Sherlock’s chest, focusing on the location of the new scar under his clothes. An image of Mary comes to John as he speaks. “These are prepared words. I’ve chosen these words with care.” He pauses a moment before continuing, “The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege. It’s all I have to say. It’s all I need to know.” He swallows, his gaze slowly shifting to his best friend’s face for his opinion.

“Deliberate word choice to sound like forgiveness without saying it. Vaguely implies reference to your wedding vows without explicitly stating them. Allows her to keep her past a secret from you without telling her that I’m looking at it.” The younger man looks up at John. “You’re smirking like I’ve missed something.”

“Yeah. Her future problems are my privilege. As in, I’ll be privileged to cause them, not face them.” His dark blue eyes glint, and the smile on John’s face is more malicious than his usual angry smile. “If you didn’t catch it, then she shouldn’t either. She never actually asked for forgiveness, so I’m not forgiving her. She’s not actually Mary Morstan, so the whole marriage is a fraud and my vows to her are void.” He pauses, then grabs Sherlock’s wrist. “As far as I’m concerned, your vow to her is void as well. She’s not really Mary Watson.”

John watches Sherlock’s eyes dilate, shifting their colour to mint green, feels the speeding heartbeat against his fingers where they rest on the soft skin of his wrist. His tongue slips past his teeth to wet thin lips, his gaze darting momentarily to the perfect cupid’s bow before him before looking his friend in the eyes once more. _I shouldn’t have married her at all,_ the words crowd in this throat. He swallows them back.

The moment passes, the blonde releasing his friend and stepping back again. “I’m not really standing by her, so you don’t need to either. To be completely honest, the month we were together and married…” John looks away, his arms crossing over his chest again.

Sherlock surely knows the suburbs didn’t suit him. Despite being high at the time, he pointed out quite easily how unhappy John had been. Having his clothes ready to pack at a moment’s notice came in handy, though he only thought to use it for short escapes on cases, not for his supposed wife to shoot his best friend and destroy their struggling marriage with it.

It was supposed to be everything he wanted: a beautiful wife, a baby on the way. They lived in a nice, safe neighbourhood. He had a stable job with a predictable routine and a steady income. Instead he’d spent the entire month dreaming either Afghanistan or Sherlock, frequently both in succession. He was agitated and irritable, itching to go out on a case. But the detective never called, using the Magnussen case as an excuse to do drugs instead.

Sherlock’s phone beeps, letting them know he can take paracetamol again. “Right, time for us to have lunch. You’ve barely eaten and done a lot of vomiting over the past week, so you will be joining me today.” John helps his friend up and brings him out to the kitchen table.

* * *

They don’t speak about it that weekend, but John continues to sleep downstairs in Sherlock’s bed. Most mornings he wakes wrapped up in gangly limbs with an urgent need to escape to the loo. After three weeks back at work, the doctor comes home one afternoon to find an envelope addressed to him in the mail. Once he is settled into his chair with his tea, Sherlock watching curiously from the sofa, John opens it up.

After a few minutes, the detective speaks up. “Well?”

“It’s not my kid.” The blogger looks at his friend. He feels relieved, which quickly morphs to guilt for not being devastated. The only moment he felt any kind of happiness about becoming a father was when Sherlock had joked about them practicing parenting on him. The burn of betrayal which has simmered in his gut since Lauriston Gardens only flares slightly. “Between this and the fake identity, I should be able to get an annulment once its safe. After this Magnussen case and she has the baby, perhaps we turn her in for your shooting, plus whatever else you have on her.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Then we’ll find out who the father is, and see if he wants the baby or if will go up for adoption.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A popular as the theory is, I don't actually think that on the show Mary is pregnant by someone other than John. However, since I'm writing a fix-it, I can deal with the baby in the way that's most convenient to my own narrative rather than how I think it will be actually done. Hurrah for fanfiction. ;)


	11. Appledore and Tarmac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Ariane DeVere for [His Last Vow transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/68754.html).

On the helicopter to Appledore, John does a mental review of the conversation he had with Mary before Wiggin's sedative kicked in. (He's also annoyed that Sherlock didn't warn him ahead of time that he was planning to drug everyone. Really, all he wants is to be **told** these things before they are enacted.) As planned, Mary heard what John intended her to hear when he said his carefully chosen words. However, despite trying to avoid answering the question, he had to lie about reading the flash drive, and throw it in the fire. She didn’t seem to doubt his word, though it was likely because she had tried to manipulate him into not looking at it. 

Not that it mattered, he had the downloaded files backed up elsewhere, and Sherlock had saved both the downloading program and the server location. The blogger hasn’t mentioned to him yet that he went ahead and downloaded the files, but John wanted a chance to finish reading them all first. Doing it in fits and starts so he could do it in private, meant it had taken nearly until Christmas.

He’ll just have to talk to the detective about them sometime later. Making his so-called wife comfortable with his return to her flat means it will have to wait at least until after New Year. Even so, the sooner they talked about it the better. If Sherlock missed her in his two years of death taking down Moriarty’s web, then he might have missed others as well.

Magnussen’s helicopter is landing at Appledore now. Curiously, the security team doesn’t bother searching either of them. The weight of the SIG in his pocket is comforting, but John has to wonder why it isn’t being taken from him.

* * *

“Can I flick your face?”

It is official, John actually hates Magnussen. To be honest, if he wasn’t concerned that whoever was after his lying wife would also target Sherlock and himself for their connections to both her and Moriarty, he would have had tried to get this whole thing called off when the news of Lord Smallwood’s suicide hit last night. Pursing his lips, the doctor leans forward.

As the newsman thwaps his middle finger repeatedly onto the former soldier’s face, he starts to pontificate. “I just _love_ doing this. I could do it all day. It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed. I know where to find people who hate her. I know where they live; I know their phone numbers. All in my Mind Palace – _all_ of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down – and I _will_ … unless you let me flick your face. This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries just because I _know_.” Magnussen bends down, bringing his face level with John’s. “Can I do your eye now? See if you can keep it open, hmm?” The doctor flinches instinctively as the damned finger snaps at his eye. “Come on. For Mary. Keep it open.”

“Sherlock,” John corrects. Every flick reminds the blonde of just how much of a mistake it was going through with the engagement and marriage, even before she shot his best friend.

“Let him. I’m sorry,” the brunette apologises. “Just… let him.”

The soldier is surprised that both men think he was seeking intermediacy. Of course, neither know that John looked at Mary’s AGRA drive. He _knows_ he has to protect Mary in order to protect Sherlock for now.

After his moment focused on the detective, Magnussen turns back to John. “Come on. Eye open.”

As the newsman starts up his petty torture again, the soldier phases out a bit. He isn’t really listening to what the man is saying anymore. The SIG is heavy in his coat, tempting John to pull it out and shoot Magnussen somewhere painful or perhaps debilitating.

His relief when Sherlock slips the gun out of his pocket is only momentary, quickly replaced by shock when a bullet flies into the Dane’s head. John thought that his friend was taking the gun to keep him from using it, not to do so himself! Especially since he did it in front of a dozen government agents.

The doctor watches, horrified, as the agents move in. Both he and the detective are handcuffed and brought to separate helicopters. John thinks he can see Mycroft in the helicopter his best friend is being tucked in to. He can’t help but think that their skills at non-verbal communication will be put to use with the noise of propellers preventing anything like a private moment to occur out loud.

When the helicopters land, they’re at Vauxhall Cross. John wonders if MI6 was involved because Magnussen was a foreign national, or if Mycroft has high influence in SIS. If it’s the latter, hopefully he can come up with a plan to fix this bloody mess.

* * *

As much as he wanted to hear what Sherlock was actually going to say before boarding the plane, John is quietly grateful that he didn’t say it ( _Was it really **that**? Please, let it have been that_ ) with Mycroft and Mary watching his face from down the tarmac.

The doctor is ready to hear what his best friend has to say, but not with an audience. Besides, any moment now Sherlock’s plane is going to get turned around. He won’t be going to Eastern Europe for MI6 after all, so he doesn’t have to make “deathbed” confessions. (The detective failed to mention explicitly that it was a suicide mission, but it was clear enough.) It also would have been a bit not good of him to not say it until he thought he was leaving for good. It’s bad enough he shot Magnussen in front of witnesses and was being sent away.

John used the video to make a Moriarty resurrection clip. It was rather convenient of Jim to leave that where the former soldier could get his hands on it. Honestly, the blogger has pants video editing skills, but it just needed to be enough to turn the plane around. He got the clip to Mycroft, and his job was to make sure it got Sherlock called back home.

It will force Mary to make a move, at the very least. He would have rather waited to flush her out after she had her baby, but with the Appledore disaster that wasn’t an option any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this one! I've set up the series, so anyone interested in reading the other parts I plan on writing be sure to move your subs to the series. I will be taking a break, then I intend to write out the next fic fully before posting it. Doing a fully new story instead of hole plugging will need a lot more planning and editing, won't it?

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to contact me, feel free to visit [my Tumblr](http://phoenixdaisy.tumblr.com) and send me an ask. If you like what you see, followers are welcome as well!


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